Just Hands
by Mistress Infinity
Summary: In which Dan notices Rorschach has freckles, and Rorschach freaks out. Dan soothes him. One shot, basically PWP, DanRor/Niteschach/whatever you want to call it. I own nothing, and basically have no idea what I'm doing.


It never should have ended like this, and he knew it.

It had started out so innocently— a night of patrol that ended as it always did, with Dan inviting him over for coffee and leftovers. He had accepted, which he did once every few days, munched on some chow mein, sipped some coffee….

"You have freckles." Dan was gesturing to the exposed portion of his face. He hurried to yank his mask back down, but Dan dove forward, grabbing his hands to stop him.

"Hey. Hey, it's alright. They're just freckles, Rorschach, it's alright…."

He was painfully aware of Daniel's thumbs resting against his jaw, of Daniel's fingertips, the soft palms of Daniel's hands…..

"Stop," he half-snarled, shooting up from his chair and scrambling backwards

"Hey. Hey buddy. It's alright." Dan's hands were up in what was meant to be a placating gesture. "Just hands, Rorschach. Just hands. Look." He stepped forward, hands still up where the other man could see them. "Just hands." He let one rest on the smaller man's shoulder. "See?"

Rorschach was panting, gasping for air as though he had just run five miles. His heart was pounding in his ears, beating against his chest as though it were trying to burst forth from his ribcage. "Daniel…. Don't."

"Rorschach, you're freaking out over nothing, buddy… I stitch you up all the time, man, this isn't anything new…"

"Not like this." Stitching was done on _his_ terms, when _he_ was ready for Daniel to touch him, when he had time to steel his nerves, to distract himself from the feel of soft, smooth flesh against his, from the warmth of the other…. He could _smell_ Daniel's cologne, for God's sake, and….

Oh no.

No no no no no no no.

Not that. Anything but that. He could feel it in the front of his pants, hot and tight and shameful, and Daniel would see it, Daniel would hate him, Daniel would understand the monster he truly was…. He tore away from the other once again, scrambling backwards desperately.

Then he was on his back on the floor, head aching, gasping for air once again and pushing a coffee table off his torso.

"Rorschach, man, what's wrong? Is… Is everything alright?"

He growled— actually growled, like an animal— still trying to get away, but only succeeded in backing himself into a corner.

"You knocked a coffee table over on yourself, Rorschach… Come on, at least let me make sure you're okay…."

And then Daniel was there, hands running over his chest, feeling at his ribs, his stomach, and he could do nothing but whimper, because as much as he wanted to fight his way out of this, to push the other away, he _wanted_Daniel's hands on him, he wanted Daniel to keep touching him….

"See? Just hands, Rorschach. Just like always. No big deal, huh?" Daniel smiled at him— that ridiculous, goofy smile that he seemed to only save for him— and he was suddenly painfully aware that his pants weren't getting any looser. "No big deal," he reiterated. "Just hands."

It was a long moment before Rorschach let himself relax, let his breathing slow ever-so-slightly, his eyes drift closed beneath his mask. He leaned into Daniel's hands where they rested against his stomach subconsciously; he could almost feel the warmth of the other through his trenchcoat, could almost imagine the soft rustle of fabric as the garment was pushed away…

Wait.

His eyes shot open. Something wasn't right. His chest was too cold… _Daniel had pushed his trenchcoat open_.

"Daniel…. Don't…."

"Just hands, Rorschach. It's alright." The hands were at his belt now, and it took everything he had not to lash out as the other man unbuckled it. "Do you trust me, Rorschach?"

He was quiet for a long moment, staring from beneath his mask, before he nodded. What was wrong? Why was Daniel doing this?

"Just hands, buddy." His pants were undone now, and Daniel's hand was inside, grasping at….

"D-Daniel…. Daniel, don't…. Shouldn't… Can't…"

"Did you expect me not to notice? It's okay, Rorschach. Look." The hand inside his pants shifted. "Just hands."

He groaned in spite of himself, feeling Daniel's hand move along his painfully hard length, pulling it free and continuing to work it, slowly and gently. "Daniel," he moaned the other's name, making it half a plea, and his partner responded by picking up speed. Rorschach couldn't have asked the man to stop now, not even if he'd wanted to— he could scarcely believe what was happening to him.

He gasped and moaned as the other ran a thumb over his tip, hips arching up towards the other man with a grunt as he bit down on his lower lip. All that mattered suddenly was Daniel, Daniel's hands, the smell of Daniel's cologne…. He moaned, feeling more like his whore of a mother than he would have cared to admit, but suddenly the thought was banished from his mind as Daniel's hand changed it's pattern and every muscle in his body tightened all at once. Heat rushed through him, and then hot shame spilled all over Daniel's hand, leaving him sweaty and breathless and hating himself for ever letting this happen.

"See, Rorschach? Just hands. They aren't so bad, huh?"

The smaller man didn't respond— not, at least, until Daniel reached up to touch his face once again.

"No…. Hands are alright."

With that, he was back on his feet, readjusting his clothing and pulling the mask back down. "Should go."

He strode to the basement door before turning back. "Daniel? Will be back tomorrow."


End file.
